The Crisis.[7]

The roar of battle peals afar. In lurid haze, the Northern star Gleams through the flaming clouds of war; Death rides the burning blast.

What havoc on the groaning plain! What never ending heaps of slain! What tepid pools of purple rain!— We look, and stand aghast.

And still the strife resounds abroad, Earth trembles, and her forests nod, As if she felt the stamp of God, And heard His voice at last.

He speaks, indeed! Who hath an ear To learn His will, may hark and hear These hallowed words, to freedom dear, Tyrants, release the slave!

And till that mandate is obeyed, May Northern hearts beat undismayed, And all the world, with generous aid, Cheer on the loyal brave.

Ha! o’er the Southern plains shall spread The children of the honoured dead, And evermore above their head The dear old flag shall wave;—

Shall wave with all its stars, a sign That though the hosts of hell combine, The cause of freedom is divine, And slavery must expire.

A sign that, not in vain, the great And good of every clime and state Have battled with a bloody fate, Breathing heroic fire.

I love the flag, because it flings Defiance in the face of kings, While Liberty expands her wings To crown the world’s desire.

These lines were written in reference to the American civil war, at the time known as “Grant’s Battles in the Wilderness,” when, in a note to the War Department, (May 11, 1864), he penned those memorable words, “I propose to fight it out on this line, if it takes all summer.”

IN MEMORY OF JOSEPH GUIBORD.

1875.

The storm of six long years is past, And peacefully he rests at last.— Thrice hearsed, thrice cursed, let honest fame Blow treble honour to his name. If endless years of praise ensue, ’Tis but the hero’s earthly due. The humble printer’s mighty art, Though banned, will vindicate her son, And tell to every truthful heart While woods grow green and waters run— That he who braves a despot’s frown Will wear at length the victor’s crown; Even when slain, and torn asunder, And scattered piecemeal, trodden under The brutal feet of frenzied foes, His deeds will rise, as Christ’s arose, And, borne upon the chainless air, Will plead for freedom everywhere.

Let curses from their rookery fly, And flap their foul wings o’er his bones, The autumn wind that round him moans Will mock them, while in vain they try To penetrate those friendly stones.

Come what might come, from man or elf, He dared not quarrel with himself, Nor stab the Truth that in his breast Had found a warm and welcome nest. No terrors of the burning lake, Fancied or real, beyond the grave, Nor purgatorial flames could shake His manly soul, so firm and brave, For he was neither fool nor slave. True to himself, he lived and died, Not wilful, nor elate with pride, But steadfast in his honest thought, Self-justified, self-ruled, self-taught.

Our Brother! wheresoever now Thy spirit lifts its free-born brow, Behold thy kindred!—not alone In Canada will thousands own Relationship; throughout all lands,— Wherever freedom shines or dawns, An army with uplifted hands, Constrained by glowing links that bind Nobility of mind to mind, Will crown thee with their benisons.

Thus Guibord! shall the commonwealth Of truth’s and reason’s fearless sons,— Scorners of men who think by stealth, Now hold thee in fraternal trust, And consecrate thine injured dust, While woods grow green and water runs.

IT MOVES.

“I know it moves,” so said the man Whose genius read the astral scroll From east to west, from pole to pole, Yet, under a terrific ban,

Denied his thought, the truth denied, And crushed in soul betwixt the strife Of love of truth and love of life, To silence doomed he slowly died.

Since that dark hour, ’tis joy to know, The thoughts of fearless men have moved As move the stars; the years have proved Thy deathless worth, Galileo!

What marvel if he shrank with dread Beneath the lifted iron hand Whose marks were seen on every land,— Red marks where truest seers had bled.

The glare of Bruno’s fiery shroud Still seemed to haunt the midnight skies, And falling on his menaced eyes, His head the noble Pisan bowed.

And who the number may compute Of kindred souls, whose secret fears Have held them captive all their years, And kept their lips forever mute?

Grim Persecution’s sleepless rage Has many guises, all the same In essence, differing but in name, O’er all the earth, from age to age.

And if less potent now for harm, Let Freedom’s watchmen guard her towers; Happy to cry the all-well hours, Ready to ring the prompt alarm.

Low sinks the race where thought and speech Are helpless slaves to crown and cross; Where heresy brings blame and loss; And each is set a spy on each.

Blest is the soil where men can stand And say it is a crime to hide The light of reason, to deride The one sure Deity’s command—

The voice of Conscience;—here to-night This heritage of centuries, old And new, in sacred trust we hold: Our watchword—“Freedom and the Right.”

SUPERSTITION.

O Superstition, could the world behold Thy wrinkled visage,—worshipped as thou art, Not all the pomp of earth, nor all its gold Could purchase for thee one devoted heart; The sons of science, eloquently bold, Have felt the strokes of thy unsparing dart, And knaves despotic, kneeling at thy shrines, Have made thy slaves the tools of their designs.

To science turn; she cultivates the rough And barren regions of the savage mind, Her lore is not the visionary stuff Of gloomy monks; blind leaders of the blind. Her ways are mild and beautiful enough To melt the rigour of a heart unkind, Her truths are diamonds, such as will endure Throughout all ages, palpable and sure.